UNIT UK 23 A Death In The Family
by ComsatAngel
Summary: Dealing with the aftermath of Think Tank and their robotrunamok. With UNIT morale rather down thanks to casualties, enter Tig.


UNIT UK 23

A Death in the Family 

Having travelled back from a physically-exhausting operation on the North Yorkshire moors to UNIT's HQ at Aylesbury, and after playing the part of hero-who'd-fought-the-Cybermen, to which you might add _and-lived_, I might have expected a spot of leave. Maybe even a medal or two, or at least attractive young ladies swooning over me.

Alas, all I got was an urgent call from the Brig's adjutant. Report to the Brig soonest.

A distracted Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart acknowledged me when I reported in to him. His normally tidy desk was strewn with papers and folders, which he carefully swept up to prevent me from reading upside-down. I did notice a strange ideogram, a figure 8 bifurcated at top and bottom in yellow on a green background, before he whisked it into a folder.

'John, glad you made it off the moors all right. I'm afraid I'm going to have to send you back to Yorkshire again, the coast this time.'

He looked up at me, and I realised where I was going.

'Maiden's Point, sir?'

He nodded. Brief sigh from me, which he caught.

'Sorry for the short notice, and the rapid departure, but Sergeant Beck fell down the cliff path and broke his arm. He's being lifted out today and we need a body to replace him.'

'Once more unto the beach,' I punned.

'That's the spirit!' he replied. 'Get your kit and report to Windmill as soon as possible.'

Not that this was all bad news – Major Crichton, I got told afterwards, was hunting all involved in the North Yorkshire operation for detailed reports about the Cybermen, their tactics, their weapons, their appearance, shoe size, etcetera. So I escaped that, at least.

Maiden's Point is an isolated spot on the Yorkshire coast, the site of an old wartime Royal Naval research station. UNIT engineers have long since dug up any road access to the site, and only occasional walkers or hikers gone astray ever turn up at the perimeter fence. They must wonder why three fences, barbed wire and constant patrols are needed to secure a square mile of perfectly innocent terrain.

Haemovores, that's why. A colony of these creatures lives off the coastline, in a kind of _laissez-faire_ arrangement with the UNIT establishment and the Royal Navy – who know a whole lot more about these creatures than they ever admit to. The Doctor described them in frankly incomprehensible terms to me once, the gist of which is that they're the result of an eddy in time from the far future, interfering with the present.

Service at Maiden's Point used to be both boring and creepy, with everyone stationed there feeling under observation. Nothing ever happened, until I was lucky – or unlucky – enough to meet a haemovore on the beachfront at night. In exchange for the garrison not throwing grenades into the sea to acquire fish, the haemovores leave fresh fish on a beachfront rock, covered with kelp to avoid drying out. Thanks to the vegetable allotments on-site, the garrison now has an endless supply of fish and chips.

Still, it's a long, dull spell of duty. Normally you do a tour of four weeks, so I felt lucky at only having to do three. Time didn't stand still whilst I was out of commission, however, and the RTO at Maiden's Point got several extremely odd messages about events going on back at Aylesbury and elsewhere. In fact most of us dismissed them as badly garbled deciphers, the RTO at Aylesbury having a laugh or Chinese whispers on the radio, we being at the end of the communications chain. Fifty-foot tall robots that kidnapped women, mad scientists and disintegrator guns! Not only that, the Doctor was a changed man. Quite what that meant was open to question – perhaps he'd given up wine and operatic librettoes and tailored ruffs on his shirts, the dandy.

When I caught the helicopter back to Aylesbury, however, the atmosphere seemed subdued. The Guard Room staff on duty didn't glow with inner happiness at the best of times, but these two seemed positively miserable.

'Let me guess – bad news in the Cup Final?' I jibed.

Corporal Timms looked at me in surprise.

'Don't say you haven't heard, sir? About the casualties?'

At the word "casualties" a chill raced up and down my backbone. Since my joining UNIT we'd not suffered a single "exotic" casualty, a bit of a flat period in comparison to the earlier years of the Seventies. And now the plural was being mentioned.

'You mean that gibberish about giant robots was true!' I exclaimed.

'We lost eight men, sir. Three of them from your company, the fitters.'

I stared, and felt my stomach drop.

'Who?' not really wanting an answer to the question.

'Sergeant Whittaker. Corporal Higgins. Private Pooley. They were all in the Scorpion, sir. Private Matthews and Corporal Notting also killed, sir, and Private Smithies and Fielding. Corporal Notting got crushed, Smithies and Fielding too. Private Quinn got killed at the Emmett Electronics factory.'

Corporal Dene, the other man in the Guard Room, elbowed Timms.

'Quiet, you pillock! You ought to get up and see the Brigadier, sir.'

Not thinking very hard, I made my way up to the Brig's office, where the adjutant merely nodded at me.

'The Brigadier's expecting you, sir. Just go right in.'

Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, MC and Bar, DSO, late of the Scots Guards, was looking out of his office window. He wore his dress uniform, with the jaunty cap and cap badge of the Guards, and tartan trews, and his medals and ribbons. The last was unusual, especially so for a senior officer, since the Brig rarely bothers to wear what he's entitled to.

'John,' he acknowledged, looking outside. 'I wanted to tell you about the casualties suffered myself. Not the done thing, having someone else give you the bad news.'

'Sir!' I replied, stamping precision in every motion.

He related a tale worth the telling. Private Matthews had been disintegrated by the killer robot wielding a disintegrator gun. One of my Scorpion tanks ("Hengist") and the three-man crew had been disintegrated. Corporal Notting had been killed when the now-enlarged robot stamped on him. Smithies and Fielding had been crushed to death by the bloody metal monster.

'Disintegrated means nothing left to bury, John. Nothing at all. The coffins need to be weighted with sandbags. Closed caskets in every case.'

All through this the Brig continued to stare out of the window. The drill square at Aylesbury couldn't be that attractive and interesting, surely?

'Ah – have you just been to a service, sir?' I managed.

'Yes. Sergeant Whittaker's, next to last funeral. I'd appreciate it if you could be present at Corporal Higgin's, John. You won't be one of the bearers, but it matters that his OC is present at the ceremony. See the adjutant for details.'

I gave him a salute in lieu of dismissal, before getting to the door, when he spoke again.

'It's never easy, John, losing men. It gets less hard, but it's never easy. Start thinking about what to tell people at the funeral.'

A bundle of mail awaited me in my quarters: a couple of letters from Marie, which I quickly put aside for slow, savoured reading later on; a strange letter with a European postmark; a missive from Project Broom; an official loadofcompletecrap from the Ministry of Defence; and a bulky package from Wigan – with my dad's handwriting on the reverse.

I didn't get chance to read any of these, since a loud rapping at the door disturbed me. The culprit turned out to be Sergeant Horrigan, my highly-efficient NCO in the Battalion Transport command.

'Sir. Have you heard about Al and Higgy and the others?' he asked.

'Come in,' I asked, and added when he hesitated. 'Tom, I need more information. The Brig didn't give – oh, excuse _me _- the Brigadier didn't give me more than the bare details. He said, and I quote, that the coffins need to be weighted with sandbags.'

Tom Horrigan looked a bit sick, as well he might: according to the duty rota, he should have been commander in the Scorpion. Instead, wanting to get to his daughter's christening, he'd arranged a swap with Alan Whittaker. He'd just come back, with the Brig, from the memorial service at Hythe, and didn't enjoy describing the set, pale faces of Sergeant Whittaker's widow and ten year old daughter.

'We copped most of all at the Think Tank Bunker,' explained Tom. 'We were all in light kit, sub-machine guns and grenades only, ready to do room-to-room fighting.'

'The robot did all that?' I asked, perplexed.

He shook his head.

'Not really, John, the robot's only a tool, another kind of weapon, even if it did have that weird and wonderful disintegrator gun. The people behind it are the real killers.'

' "Think Tank" – the Scientific Reform Society, from what the Brigadier said.'

Tom nodded.

'Mad scientists, sir. Mad scientists who wanted to blow up the world.'

I sent him on his uneasy way with a sterling clap on the shoulder, man to man, whilst thinking to myself. I was intimate with a scientist - Marie. I knew her friend and ex-UNIT scientific advisor Liz Shaw pretty well. I'd knocked around with UNIT's _special_ scientific advisor, the Doctor. Our very own Major Crichton was a scientist of sorts. None of them wanted to blow up the world.

Halfway through having a shave, the adjutant rang me.

'Yes!' I replied, trying not to smear foam on the mouthpiece.

'Brigadier's compliments, sir, and the saloon will be ready for you and the others in five minutes.'

'Five minutes!' I half-shouted. 'I'm still shaving! My dress suit needs - '

'Sergeant Horrigan had it cleaned, pressed and starched, sir. Should be in a cellophane cover in your wardrobe.'

It was. Damn, I was going to miss Sergeant Horrigan when he left UNIT!

The burial service was at the parish church of Hampton Dibney in Essex, and the five of us from Aylesbury drove down there in a thoughtful silence. The four troopers would be the burial party, carrying the coffin, back in their regimental dress uniforms. As the OC, I kept my UNIT dress uniform.

In a kind of mocking irony, the day turned out to be lovely when we arrived at the church, a cloudless blue sky and occasional fleecy clouds, with local birdlife chirping and swooping gaily. The church was out in the countryside, a picturesque little pile in a village, more suitable for a wedding than a funeral.

Much to my surprise, there were a lot of people present. I'd imagined that the death of a UNIT member, trooper, NCO or officer, would be a hush-hush affair with the vicar, the burial party and perhaps the parents present. Not today. At least fifty people were here, ranging from kids only knee-high to several frail and tottering pensioners.

The vicar spotted our saloon and made a bee-line for me instantly.

'Hello – are you the General?' he asked breathlessly. I knew without having to look that the four troopers were adopting postures of apparent disinterest, whilst cranking up their ears.

'Captain only, I'm afraid,' I replied. 'Captain Walmsley, Corporal Higgins' Officer Commanding.'

'Righto, righto. This should give you an idea of the service,' and he gave me a pamphlet. 'I'll begin, then there'll be a series of readings, then a prayer service, then we'll proceed to the burial. Have you met the parents of Corporal Higgins yet?'

Before I could answer, he grabbed my elbow and pulled me across the road to meet a middle-aged husband and wife. Normally anyone trying to steer me like that gets a body-check, but today I didn't dare try to shrug off a member of the church.

'Mister and Mrs Higgins – this is Captain Walmersly, your son's Commanding Officer,' said the vicar, getting it wrong and then departing.

Great!

What the hell did you say to the parent's of a man now dead?

Mr Higgins extended a hand, which I shook. I gave a short Continental bow to his wife, much as practiced by Kapitan Komorowski, our Polish liaison at Aylesbury. The father was a ruddy-faced, rotund man, smaller than his wife, who looked keenly at me over a pair of bifocals.

'It's Captain Walmsley,' I corrected. 'Officer Commanding.'

Mr Higgins nodded in reply, taking me in from head to foot in one swift glance.

'They won't tell us how he died!' whispered Mrs Higgins, hoarsely. 'And the casket was sealed.'

Terrific, now I had to negotiate a set of lies and half-truths.

'What did happen?' asked Mr Higgins.

'I can't tell you what happened. Not just won't, can't – I wasn't there, sir. I doubt if the details will ever be made public.'

In the background, a woman in black dress just the right side of too short, and sunglasses, was hovering.

'It wasn't painful, was it?' asked Mrs Higgins. 'Only, I don't want to be thinking of my boy suffering.'

On paper it sounds trite, but this woman meant it. She seemed seconds from a major outbreak of tears, clutching a hanky with considerable force. The hovering woman got closer.

'I don't think so,' I replied, cautiously. 'I believe it was instantaneous.'

'Did he do his duty – you know, act bravely, like a soldier?' asked Mr Higgins.

'Of course,' I said, sincerely. You always went bravely into battle as a member of UNIT, never knowing if you were up against the bad guys who might kill you instantly with all the effort of flicking a switch.

'How do you know!' interrupted that hovering woman. 'You weren't there! You said you weren't there, so how do you know!'

'Captain Walmsley,' I smarmed, placing hand over heart, implying that the stranger ought to introduce herself.

'This is Tina, Simon's sister,' explained Mr Higgins.

'Because I was in Yorkshire with your brother on a recent exercise, Miss Higgins. Because we were together in London for weeks during Operation Chromium. The dinosaurs,' I added, when they frowned in puzzlement.

Tina sneered at me.

'Big deal! And you still won't say what really happened to Si, none of you will. Bunch of bas - ' and her voice tailed off when her mother directed a fiery glance at the errant daughter.

Glancing left and right, I leaned forward. Not mere acting.

'Your brother – and your son, sir – died preventing the deaths of at least two hundred and fifty - ' and I paused for breath and effect at that point – 'two hundred and fifty _million_ people. Most of the northern hemisphere, in fact.'

That got stares in return. Let them stare, it was the unalloyed truth.

'I could get court-martialled for telling you that, so don't spread the news.'

After that punch-line the Higgins' were silent. The hearse arrived soon after, and the vicar shepherded people into the church behind the coffin bearers, who hefted the wooden box in grim silence. The strains of a song definitely not in the Book of Psalms echoed around the church interior; one of the troopers informed afterwards me it was a Northern Soul classic, a form of music beloved of Higgy.

Things went sombrely and correctly until I noticed the notation in the pamphlet "Address by Corporal Higgins' Commanding Officer" and broke out into a cold sweat. This must be what the Brig meant by "what to say to people at the funeral". Arse! How could I keep quiet about any operational details whilst speaking about the Corporal? How long was I expected to speak? The other speakers all lauded Higgy to the heavens whilst I was thinking.

My turn at the lectern came after Tina Higgins, who looked daggers at me all during her speech, which consisted of reminiscences about her brother constantly picking on her at home, but taking on all-comers outside if she got picked on.

The vicar guided me to the stand, murmuring that it needn't be long or deep. Being present was my most important function, I suppose.

John's Tongue, as it is prone to do in moments of crisis, took over and began to work entirely independently of John's Brain.

'I'm not going to paint Corporal Higgins in a flattering whitewash,' I began. 'Because he was a human being, not a model of virtue raised up on a pedestal. He was a human being, who volunteered to help protect other human beings, and who died carrying out that duty, and his memory needs to be served properly.

'I knew him for several years, and he was a rascal, always up to something. The disused culvert and piping that allowed troopers to get back to barracks undetected after hours was his discovery. The rope ladder used previously for that function was probably his idea, too.

'Yes, he was incorrigible. One day, in the vehicle workshops, I dropped my fountain pen into an inspection pit. It was a present from my girlfriend and I wasn't about to lose it, so I got down in the pit and grovelled about for it. At that point in came Corporal Higgins and another trooper, neither of them able to see me.

' "Don't you dare light that in here!' warned the Corporal – smoking is strictly banned in the workshops. I didn't recognise the other trooper's voice, but he spoke up.

"Fatty's not here,' he said – me being Fatty - ' and a few nervous titters went around the pews. 'So Corporal Higgins put him right. "He doesn't smoke, you pillock, and he'll smell a fag at fifty yards and he'll be on my back." There was a pause before the other soldier carried on. "Is Fatty as hard as he likes to think he is?"

'Corporal Higgins replied "Nah – a weeping woman or a sick kid turns him into a pile of jelly," which is actually pretty accurate. Perceptive lad, Corporal Higgins.' More nervous laughter in the church.

'At that point I climbed out of the inspection pit. The other trooper went white with shock. Corporal Higgins gave me a smart salute, not looking bothered at all.

' "What did you think of the rehearsal, sir? For the play,' he said, completely unfazed. Well, what can you do to a man as calm and resourceful as that? That was Corporal Higgins, unfailingly cheerful, clever and resolute. I am proud to have had him as a member of my company.'

Tina Higgins sobbed into a hanky after that, to my surprise. Apparently that comment about the "play" was typical of her brother. Her mother hugged her closely, while her father held her hands. Then it came to the burial, and casting earth on the coffin, followed by a long goodbye from both parents outside the church. Mr Higgins gave me a sweaty handshake.

'Do you know who did it? I mean, they will be punished, won't they?' he asked, with his daughter hovering behind him.

I cracked my knuckles without realising it.

'They certainly _will_ be punished.' Crack crack crack. Oh yes they certainly will, and if I have anything to do with it there will be a great deal of blood and pain involved -

'There wasn't anything in the papers or on the news,' interrupted Tina.

'No - and there won't be. However, for attacking UNIT, they can expect twenty-five year prison sentences. There's a special prison, not on any maps, where people like that go.'

Perfectly true. Anyone attacking UNIT is by definition an Identified Hostile, liable to be shot dead without warning and without any legal protection. There's a special secret addition to the UN's Human Rights Charter that lays the details out. The special prison is on an island in the Swale, and it isn't on any maps. Not the sort that you can buy from John Menzies, anyway.

The drive back to Aylesbury was a lot less solemn than the journey down, even to the extent of Corporal Twiss daring to ask me questions about adventures in parts not local.

'Is it true, sir, about you being on the planet of the raving lesbians?'

'Put your tongue back in!' I warned him, crossly. 'Yes it is true. And it was no more racy than everyday life here in England. Certainly nothing like those magazines that occasionally crop up in the Guard Room.'

A few "hmmm!"s were heard at that, in assumed innocence. As if!

'Mind if we smoke, sir?' asked Private Mumford.

'Not if you mind me winding the window down.'

'Are you really allergic, sir?' asked Corporal Twiss again.

'You're not kidding,' I told him ruefully. 'That speech at the church was completely accurate. The first time I tried a fag was at secondary school. My lips swelled up like a lifebelt. The moment I walked in through the front door my mum knew that I'd been smoking, and Good God Almighty, did I get a telling-off. My dad laughed himself silly before banishing me to my bedroom for the night.'

The troopers all chortled quietly at their officer getting embarrassed and humiliated. About par for the course. What came next stunned me just as much as my mum's citric comments about smoking.

'That was a good speech, sir. About Higgy. Honest but funny at the same time.'

'Too true! He still owes me twenty quid. Owed.'

'Yeah, it got him dead to rights, sir. He couldn't deny it.'

For a bunch of troopers to admit that their OC got it right is praise indeed.

'Yes, well – I did not enjoy today at all. If any of you bastards die on duty you'll have a big fat bunch of trouble from me, I can tell you,' I riposted.

By the time we got back to HQ and parked up, the shades of night were falling. This did not prevent me from seeing a brown streak go shooting across the lawns like a blurred bolt of lightning. A rabbit?

'Do we have an infestation of rabbits?' I asked.

'I hope so, sir!' answered Corporal Twiss. 'We can go hunting them for the canteen and the mess.'

Jugged rabbit – not bad for morale.

'Right, chaps, I'm off to bed. Thanks for being professional during the service.'

I managed to read the letter with a Paris postmark. Surprisingly enough, it came from Tad, Kapitan Tadeusz Komorowski, the Polish liaison officer sent to us months before.

"Friend John, forgive the lack of an official good-bye. I have not had time to do more than pen these few lines en route to Warszawa. They will be given to an officer I can trust, who will ensure they get to you untroubled by censors.

"I did not know much about UNIT in the UK, nor about the British – note how I do not make that mistake of saying "the English" – before arriving there, but I find that my experience with your UNIT formation makes me a better human being, but a less effective Warsaw Pact officer. As I believe you observed, humanity's greatest enemy is no longer humanity.

"Naturally, this affects my performance. I might go to war against the Hideous Capitalist West, but I would not be a very good soldier any longer. From what I saw and heard in my time at Aylesbury I think this condition affects all UNIT personnel. Regardless, my career and future are rather in your hands, so I hope you do not trumpet the contents of this letter abroad!

"I enclose my Warszawa address. Please call upon us if you are ever in Poland, or Eastern Europe, and Agnieta and I will demonstrate traditional Polish hospitality.

"Sto lat – and Protect the Planet!"

That left me sucking my teeth. I liked Tad. He took in everything, and said only what he thought was necessary, with a natural poker face. He was extremely quick on the uptake, fortunately for me after that jaunt to the North Yorkshire dales. Given that he was a member of the Warsaw Pact on detached duty, writing a letter like this must involve considerable risk.

That night I suffered one of my recurring nightmares, that of Wandsworth Prison. To the public, the appalling massacre in there had been played down, and even if twelve hundred people died, well, they were mostly convicted prisoners of no great worth, eh? Believe me, it's different when you have to wade ankle-deep in the blood of people who have torn each other to bits.

Anyway, after being trapped in an endless hallway of corpses that kept coming back to life no matter how many times they got shot, I gradually came back to wakefulness. I read one of Marie's letters then, to get back a human perspective on matters. Mostly inane daily routine, interspersed with one or two lines saying that she missed me, which generated a tug on my heartstrings. Her father was still maintaining an air of chilly disapproval about his daughter's involvement with me. Me! Mister Charming Fantasticness Personified. Also, one of her friends had discovered an expatriate bistro in Kensington that was so good the Embassy staff travelled there to eat, so we must try to get a table there when next I got leave.

By ten o'clock on the next morning I had been down to the gym, come back and showered, and made it into my office, to catch up on what filing and misfiling had occurred during my visit to Maiden's Point. As the Battalion Transport Officer I knew what vehicles were on strength exactly, and seeing paperwork for an American Army Jeep in a separate file concentrated my attention. Not only that, there was a separate file with the title "SWW Troop", another novel mystery. What was this new and unknown unit?

Preceded only shortly by a knock, Lieutenant Nick Munroe entered the office, forcing me to leave the puzzle of SWW for a moment.

'What ho, John, do you want the good news or bad news first?'

I indicated a chair, whilst looking at him via narrowed eyes.

'Let me take a wild guess, based on your completely inappropriate behaviour. I'm not a Captain any longer. Revert back to Lieutenant since Kapitan Komorowski has gone home.'

'Oh,' he replied, slightly disappointed. 'Yes, that was the bad news. Tad got squirreled off to London with the Polish Embassy's senior military officer and their Ambassador about ten minutes after you went whirling off to Yorkshire.'

That made sense. He'd been here because the Russians sent him, as a proxy, trying to find out about an outbreak of metal craters in the far distant steppe and the death of over a thousand people. The metal craters came courtesy the Cybermen. Tad, having had experience of them in North Yorkshire, was needed in Eastern Europe thanks to that very same experience.

'The good news is?'

'Ah, yes. We now have two American officers come to visit for a while.'

That explained the Jeep.

'Captain Milton Sperling of the Hundred and First Airborne, and Master Sergeant Benford Dobbs of the Marine Corps. They appear to have heard about you, and they're curious.'

'Why are they here?'

'Officially as liaison, also to instruct us in the use of all those American war surplus weapons that turned up in the Armoury recently. Has that cheered you up at all?'

'This _is_ my cheery face.'

'Ah. I see. Only, you know, QMS Campbell is moaning about having to replace another punching-bag in the gym, which is usually a symptom of you working off a temper.'

In reply, I threw him the letter from the MoD. He read it through once, frowned in disbelief and re-read it aloud.

' " – must insist you provide documented proof from witnesses that the Scorpion CVRT on lease to UNIT circa Aylesbury, MODRef. SC0926, Chassis Number – long string of numbers follows, blah blah, to substantiate your allegation that the AFV in question was quote disintegrated unquote. Otherwise we must regretfully inform you it is our intention to begin legal sanction, Yours B Clibbern." ' He looked up at me and said several bad things about the MoD. Two little red dots on his cheeks indicated that he was extremely annoyed.

'So they think you're making it up! What about the bloody funerals we've had here! Puffed-up little tin Hitlers, I'll show them what for!'

He picked up my phone and dialled a number from memory, calling his brother in Whitehall.

'Hello? Don? This is Nick. Listen, you remember John – John Walmsley? Yes, that's the one. Well some poisonous little oik at the MoD has sent a letter to him about one of our tanks that got destroyed. Oh, you heard about it too? I'll read it out to you - ' and he rattled through the letter with venom. A silence at the other end resulted, before an incredulous exclamation.

'I want you to find the little – I want you to find him and sit on him, hard. If the Brig finds out about this there'll be blood in the corridors of power, let me tell you!'

Still seething, he slammed the phone down into the cradle, then let fly with a long series of curses.

'I'm impressed. What's your brother going to do?'

Nick gave a nasty smile.

'Something creative, knowing him. Creative and malicious.'

The letter from Project Broom worried me initially. It detailed the fifteen thousand pounds paid to the National Trust for damage to Bolton Castle, for the hire of an extra twenty stonemasons to carry out remedial and repair work on the fabric of the castle – I worried because I'd done most of that damage. The closing paragraphs changed tone entirely – the Proj boys would have paid a hundred and fifty thousand pounds gladly, because they'd got a functional, undamaged, half-charged Cyberweapon out of the escapade. More swings than roundabouts that time.

'Oh, do you know what the ever-so-mysterious "SWW Troop" is? I've not checked the file yet.'

A mocking grin spread over my confrere's face.

'You don't know! O happy day! Here, come down to the vehicle sheds and I'll show you. No, no, you have to come with me.'

A new pre-fab vehicle port had been put up whilst I was off at Maiden's Point, a fair-sized thing that housed three new tracked vehicles. As we got closer I recognised them as Striker's, based on the same chassis as the Scorpion tank but firing wire-guided anti-tank missiles.

'How come we've suddenly got these!' I exclaimed. I'd been trying to get Strikers for ages, to absolutely no avail. My contacts in the regulars would shake their heads sadly and apologise and say wait a decade or two.

'Lieutenant Walmsley, meet the "Sir William Walker" Troop!' announced Nick, with a grand gesture.

By sleight of hand in the corridors of power, that fat biffer Sir William had managed to sponsor three of the anti-tank vehicles, which would officially be known as the Sir William Walker Troop. Named Gaillard, Chevaliers and Beaumaris. All we needed now were either regulars from the Army trained in their use, or a training programme for some willing UNIT volunteers.

'I don't know what to say!' and for once I was speechless.

'We've already said it. Gives us a bit more clout at a distance, doesn't it?'

Ooh yes. These babies could launch a broadside of fifteen missiles one after the other, out to well over two miles.

'Arse – that reminds me, I need to get a bottle or two of whisky. Have you got any to spare?'

Nick pursed his lips and shook his head sorrowfully.

'You're a day too late. I sold my last crate to the mess sergeant yesterday. What, is your lady friend not nagging you about drinking any more?'

I punched him on the arm.

'Not for me, you bag of sand! I need it for tonight.'

'Well, sign out a Lannie and get down to the off-licence in Aylesbury this evening.'

Which I did, and travelled on, to a well-defended airfield in Berkshire, where the very suspicious sentries wouldn't let me in. They did call out an officer, a Flight Lieutenant, who looked me over and gave a start.

'Do you always carry an artillery shell with you?' he asked, when I got my kitbag. The sentries cocked their weapons loudly, until I unscrewed the top of the shell, to reveal a well-padded interior and a bottle of twenty year old malt.

'You were on a deniable op a few weeks ago,' I stated, waving a hand before he could interrupt to deny any such thing. 'Don't say anything, because I was the object of the exercise.'

'I thought I recognised you,' he said, before adding hurriedly: 'That is, if any such thing had ever happened. Which it didn't.'

Both sentries were paying close attention, having re-slung their weapons.

'Uhuh. Anyway, I'd be dead if you lot hadn't tootled up with your helicopter missile-slingers. That's a thank you.'

'Gosh! Well, thank you,' he replied, before adding: 'For nothing, of course, because nothing happened in the first place. Anyway, I'll pass this, ah, entirely motiveless bottle on to the mess and we'll drink your health, for no reason whatsoever.'

He tootled off, and one of the sentries watched him go. The other motioned me closer.

'We only had sixteen missiles on the armed choppers, sir. The command ship had reloads but it would have taken ten minutes to re-arm.'

Whoops. Between Constable Ellis and I, we'd immobilised or destroyed four of the twenty Cybermen. So if we hadn't managed that - Hmm. One to think about.

Once again, back at Aylesbury, I spotted a brown blur motoring across the lawns, for long enough to realise it wasn't a rabbit. It possessed a big bushy tail, for one thing. A dog? A feral cat? How could a stray animal get past the fences, sensor strips and cameras?

'Do we have a problem with stray animals?' I enquired in the Guard Room.

'What – you mean cows and sheep, sir?' replied one of the non-coms, looking puzzled.

Clearly not, so I went to bed and dreamt uneasily of giant robots stamping on people.

Next day our visiting American liaison returned to us from their trips to Project Broom and UNIT's "black museum" at the disused airfield at Swafham Prior. I had donned a boiler-suit, which I rarely do as it makes me resemble a partially house-trained gorilla. Today I was poking around the corners of the vehicle workshops, the repair bays, the hardstands, the garages and generally making myself unpopular with the fitters and mechanics. I did uncover a pile of dubious magazines under a tarp at the bottom of a vehicle inspection pit, which were disposed of in the boiler-house furnace. Generally, having had a word with Sergeant Horrigan, I knew spirits were low, and I wanted to keep the men busy, out of mischief and not brooding. What they also needed was an activity of a more positive nature – that came about after the motorbike accident, very serendipitous.

Coming back from the furnace, I went via the outside path, instead of across the inner drill ground and quadrangle, and came across a big wooden hutch in the lee of the new prefab put up to accommodate large meetings.

'Hello hello, what are you,' I muttered, looking at the structure. About six feet to each side, with an inner, smaller unit made from a packing crate, stuffed with shredded paper. Smelly, with a kind of farmyard whiff.

Next minute, who comes around the corner but CSM Benton, cradling a small brown creature in his arms. He came to a startled stop when he saw me.

The small brown creature pricked up it's big triangular ears and barked at me.

'That's a fox,' I said, slowly. 'Which no doubt you have a fantastic explanation for, Sarn't Major?'

He tickled the fox – which was actually a cub, I realised – under the chin, and it lifted it's muzzle up in appreciation.

'It belonged to Higgy - Corporal Higgins, sir,' said the non-com, cradling the cub like a proud parent. 'He found it on the moors when he was up there with you. Both parents gone, and it was alone and starving, so he sort of adopted it.'

'Sort of adopted!' I choked. 'Sarn't Major, we can't have pets running around loose at Headquarters!'

'I know, sir, so I had the fitters knock up a home for him. He's very bright, sir. One telling and he keeps off the sensor strips.'

He put the cub down, and it made straight for me, sniffing my boots and ankles, before looking up at me with a knowing expression, mainly "I'm so cute you can't get rid of me and we both know it".

'What's his name?' I asked.

' "Tig",' replied the CSM. He whistled and the cub darted back to him, gazing up wisely, before looking back at me.

'Engaging little feller – no! No pets! Good God, the Brigadier will blow a gasket if he finds out!' I replied.

'Suppose so, sir,' finished CSM Benton, morosely. 'Thought he could be a mascot or something like that,' he finished, weakly.

Bang! His words promptly got my attention and mind working.

'Sarn't Major – you're a genius! Brilliant! Well done!'

'Really, sir?' he asked. I almost rubbed my hands in glee.

'You bet! You never served in Ulster, did you? Well, the Highland Light Infantry over there adopted a mongrel dog as a mascot, called "Rats". The Provo's didn't like him, he used to bark warnings to foot patrols. Anyway, the squaddies doted on the damn dog – he got an official ID, Delta Treble Seven. Terrific for morale.'

We conspired a bit to get the idea across most effectively and then I waltzed back to the workshops.

'And this sprightly-looking officer is Lieutenant Walmsley,' explained Captain Beresford, escorting two men in American uniforms around my little empire. They both had UNIT brassards, so they must be our new liaison. I snapped off a smart salute to the paratroop officer, Captain Sperling, who had a lean and angular build, with a weary, lived-in face, scarred on one cheek. The other man, Master Sergeant Dobbs, was black, with a face that could stop a clock and seemed as wide as he was tall. I mean, he looked as if he bench-pressed bulldozers for fun. He also wore one of those funny "lemon-squeezer" hats that the US Marines affect, but I doubt anyone had ever laughed at him.

'Sir,' he acknowledged, in a very soft voice.

'John here is in charge of the vehicles we have on strength. He also spends much time on the phone scrounging vehicles from the regulars.'

'Absolutely, sir. Whatever we can get. I feel a bit under-dressed in this monkey-suit in present company. Oh, sir? I have a suggestion put forward by CSM Benton for the purposes of morale.'

The paratrooper looked questioningly at Captain Beresford.

'We lost seven men killed recently. That sort of loss always dents spirits a bit. What did the Sarn't Major suggest?'

'A mascot, sir. He has a tame fox cub for the post.'

The Captain pursed his lips and nodded.

'You know, that's a good idea.' He turned back to the Americans. 'British squaddies are as tough as marshmallow when it comes to animals.' He paused to think a bit more. 'It would go well with the Fox armoured cars, eh?' (which is why Assault Platoon go into action with a small brown-headed creature poking out of a storage bin on the lead armoured car, totally careless about the prospect of sudden loud bangs, and indeed usually barking with excitement).

I might have nosied and questioned our American visitors more, if the consignment of Norton motorbikes ordered ages ago hadn't arrived just then. Interesting things happening in threes, eh? They came in the back of a Bedford, crated and with a ton of spare parts ordered at the same time. Of course, every loose trooper who could manage an excuse came to have a look at the sexy new kit we'd got.

'NO riding these for test purposes, consumption checks, road-holding or any other reason!' loudly ordered Sergeant Horrigan, well aware of what would happen once his and my backs were turned.

By the time we'd got the bikes examined, refuelled, tuned-up and given a few coats of camouflage-scheme paint, it was time for knocking-off, and then mealtime at the mess.

Surprisingly, the Master Sergeant stood behind one of the chairs until the Brigadier came in, clutching correspondence.

'Gentlemen. For the duration of his visit here, Mister Dobbs has been granted honorary officer status, hence his presence.'

We all sat down to begin on the first course, tomato soup. As per etiquette, nobody began talking before the Brig did. He waved the letter and sat it down next to his cutlery.

'Most unusually, Whitehall are sending a civil servant out to take statements from witnesses who were present at Think Tank's Bunker. Quite against the grain.'

Nick Munro perked up, stifling a smirk.

'Oh, God, it's not that awful little man Bergin again, is it, sir?' asked Captain Beresford, making a face. He picked up a knife and murdered a roll with it, clearly wishing the pastry was Mister Bergin.

Fitz – no, sorry, _Captain_ March – growled an unintelligible comment.

'No. Chap by the name of Clibbern,' explained the Brig. He cocked an eyebrow. 'I do not expect him to accidentally fall down stairs, accidentally wander onto the live-firing range or accidentally get hit by a truck.'

'Sir! I'm shocked you could even suggest such things happening!' smarmed Nick. This must be his brother's revenge on the snivelling Whitehall civil servant.

'It's happened before,' warned the Brig. 'Not again!'

'Shan't lay a hand on him, sir,' I promised. A boot or spade was a different thing altogether!

Lieutenant Spofforth was meanwhile demonstrating how to control the throttle properly on a Norton, with appropriate noises, to Captain Sperling. Surprising, that, since Timiserable Spofforth was rarely enthusiastic about anything.

Mister Dobbs politely shovelled the food down, not making any conversation, and perhaps a bit over-awed by the assembled officers present, until the dessert was produced.

' "Spotted dick"?' he said, with an involuntary guffaw. 'Surely your guys in the galley are joking!'

Captain Sperling shook his head.

'It's a suet pudding with dried fruit. Very British.'

The best thing about spotted dick in our mess is the custard, home made. You could live off the custard alone.

'You seem up on British army cuisine,' observed Major Crichton. He'd come down from Swafham Prior with a suitcase full of notes for the Brig earlier in the afternoon.

'I've been on joint exercises in Germany,' explained the Captain. 'I was there from seventy -three to seventy-five, and I spent a lot of time with the British paras. So I know something about your sense of humour, too.'

That had worried me. British and American slang can occasionally mean the complete opposite, not to mention irony, which – well, we'd see.

'Say, sir' began Mister Dobbs, nodding at me. 'Are you the Lieutenant Walmsley who went to the Soviet Union?'

CoughcoughyesIwasactually.

Both Americans glanced at each other, then back at me. What? What!

'With Doctor John Smith?' continued the Captain.

'Yeeeees. Don't worry, I haven't turned into a secret Bolshevik agent,' I added.

Captain Sperling shrugged.

'Officially, the big wise heads at the Department of Defence said not to trust you. Bill Filer, on the other hand, said that the Doctor can be trusted with your life.'

"Bill Filer" was a name I'd heard before. He was a slightly shadowy American, doubtless from the CIA, who had been assigned to try and track down the Master in the early seventies. After coming into contact with the Doctor, he'd successfully lobbied the Pentagon for funds to set up a special CIA department, details and operations unknown, but titled "Chronometry".

'We generally wheel John into action if we want the opposition scared witless,' joked Captain Beresford. 'Good man with a spade.'

Mister Dobbs nodded.

'Sharpened entrenching tool. Best close-in killing weapon there is.'

'Too true!' I agreed. 'Silent, no moving parts and doesn't need ammunition.'

'Moving from mayhem to aperitifs, would you care for port, Captain? Mister Dobbs?' asked the Brig.

The Captain nodded politely. Mister Dobbs, however, was a teetotaller.

'Is there a chapel on site?' he asked quietly after the meal had finished.

'Certainly is; John, please do the honours,' replied the Brig. So I escorted the hulking non-com to the tiny chapel, where he spent ten minutes inside.

'Thank you, sir,' he said, barely above a whisper, after re-emerging. I looked up and down the corridor.

'While we're alone, you might as well call me John. I have a hunch you've been around and seen considerably more than I have and I don't feel comfortable lording it over you.'

He cracked a smile then.

'Hah! You Brits and understatement, sir! I met some of your Marines in Korea, y'know. Their officers would rather cut their hand off than sound boastful.'

'There you are, familiar with the natives already,' I replied.

He stopped to peer at a large wooden plaque opposite the door to the chapel, names scrolling across it in gold leaf. The outer rim had a border of entwined laurel leaves rendered in oak.

' "In Memoriam",' he read aloud, then darted a look at me. 'Your casualties?'

I looked at what we call, with shocking irreverence, the Tote Board. Yes, the last seven names had been added: "WHITTAKER, ALAN, SERGEANT OX & BUCKS" being the last one, alphabetical you see.

'Ninety seven so far. We've been lucky since I joined, no large-scale battles and only these seven losses so far.'

Plus Private Marsh, shortly to be invalided out of the service altogether. That bloody robot hit him full on the chin when it escaped. Knocked unconscious with a shattered jaw. Thankfully he'd be able to recover fully, and get the UNIT addition to his pension.

'I'll see you to your quarters, Mister Dobbs. You fought in Korea, you say? You must have been an ankle-biter – sorry, you must have been young.'

'Thirty-year man, sir,' he proudly told me. 'Korea, Lebanon, Dominica, Indochina. Keeps me busy and out of mischief.'

'We'll not use the lift. It breaks down far too often. Any reason why you and Captain Sperling got chosen?'

His tone got a lot more guarded.

'Seen some strange things in Vietnam, sir. The Captain too, I think.'

Reigning in my nosiness, I led him to his barely-furnished room.

'Here you go, Mister Dobbs. Breakfast in the mess is between oh-seven hundred and oh eight hundred, but the nicer food is gone by oh seven thirty.'

'G'night, sir,' he said, snapping a salute.

Next morning I encountered CSM Benton and Tig, out for a constitutional by the vehicle workshops.

'I've persuaded Captain Beresford,' I told him, looking at the cub, which looked right back at me. 'Which is half the battle. If he puts in a good word with the Brigadier, we're in.'

Mister Benton gave me a nod, then pointed at Tig.

'Tig! Ten-SHUN!' he snapped.

The cub instantly squatted up on it's hind legs, forelegs dangling in front of it.

'Tig! Salute!'

The cub pawed behind one ear with a foreleg.

'Sir?' asked the CSM. I leaned against the wall for support, I was laughing so hard. After a minute I gathered my breath enough to reply.

'If you get him to do that in the mess he'll be official UNIT property in ten seconds! Fantastic, Mister Benton! Carry on!'

Later on the NCO's let it fall that the CSM decided if Batterman found Tig hilarious, then the cub was our mascot, automatically. More to the moment, I realised that Sarah Jane Smith could help us. If she was on-site then she'd be down in the Doctor's lab, except when I got down there the big blue police box had vanished again. Oh well, perhaps tomorrow .

In fact there were more problems associated with the TARDIS vanishing. When it vanished it took Harry Sullivan with it, not a loss we could manage easily, him being our resident Medical Officer. I daresay the Doctor convinced him that he could return our MO to the Headquarters ten minutes before he left; however, the Doctor's ability to direct the TARDIS to an accurate destination is questionable, and Harry might be gone for quite some time. I partly-blamed myself for his whizzing off in time and space, having piqued his curiosity about medicine of the forty second century.

Captain March burned up the phone lines to Whitehall asking for an emergency locum to be despatched to Aylesbury immediately, trying to sort out cover for Harry before the Brig discovered an officer gone AWOL.

Sorry! I should explain. AWOL is Absent With Out Leave, meaning that Mister Soldier has gone away without getting permission to do so. In civvie life this isn't too terrible, your colleagues can usually take up the slack. In the armed forces, going AWOL is a good way to get lots of punishment, especially if you're an officer, all the more if you're an officer hard to replace at short notice.

The RAMC proved to be sticky about sending a replacement, apparently having had trouble with UNIT and doctors before, which might have been trouble with Doctors, even.

I rang the Captain, remembering a name.

'Sir, wasn't Harry dating a female doctor – Eastlake or Westlake, a name like that? Might she condescend to keep his behind out of hot water with the Brigadier?'

'Damn right – Jean Westlake, John – well remembered. Ringing her now.'

For the time being I continued to go through paperwork, chewing away at a ball-point pen whilst trying to account for aviation fuel that didn't seem to exist. Between the big underground fuel tank that the Windmills filled-up from and the helicopters themselves, sixty gallons had gone missing. Aviation fuel isn't the sort of stuff you put in cigarette lighters – where on earth had it gotten to?

Captain March rang back half an hour later, to say that Doctor Westlake had agreed to cover for Harry – he was trying to hurry up formal security clearance for her. However, she'd already worked with us in the case of ex-general Hector Finch, so a proper certificate ought to be rubber-stamped pretty quickly.

'Er, the thing is, John, we need her here almost immediately. High-speed despatch.'

'One of the Norton's would get her here from London quick-smart, sir, avoiding the traffic. If she has no fears about riding a motor-bike. We can send along a Lannie to pick up her personal effects.'

So CSM Benton – don't ask me how he got himself selected – got to ride one of our new motorbikes to London, with the doctor clutching to him for dear life on the way back, and got back to Aylesbury in a time that's never been bettered since.

There was, consequently, lots to talk about in the mess that night.

'Gentlemen!' began the Brig, indicating the lady in a khaki boiler-suit stood behind a chair. 'This is Doctor Westlake. She is here to cover for the temporary absence of Surgeon Lieutenant Sullivan.'

'Ma'am!' replied the whole mess, saluting, including the American liaison officers. The Brig continued with an inaudible commentary, probably about Harry deserting his post and promising lots of retribution.

'I'm flattered!' replied Doctor Westlake. 'Thank you for my introduction, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.'

'May I propose a toast?' asked Nick Munroe, feeling his libido stirring, no doubt. 'To ladies of wit, intelligence and diligent application.' He winked at me, the rascal. Wink all you like, Marie is my paramour of choice and I'm not going to go astray again!

The talk ran along quite civilised lines for a good half an hour before more prosaic matters intruded.

'I've seen your memorial board outside the chapel,' mentioned Captain Sperling. 'Nigh on a hundred dead. That's a hell of a lot compared to other UNIT branches.'

Loosened by gazpacho, guacamole and chilli (South American theme in the mess for this week), I held forth at length.

'It might seem so, Captain, but the UK is in a uniquely vulnerable position compared to the rest of the world.'

If I'd been more attentive, I'd have seen other officers paying unduly close attention. Instead I rattled on at length.

'The UK, you see, is an island, even if it is an extremely large island. Which means if an alien invasion succeeds here on the mainland, then any help or counter-invasion has to contend with a cross-Channel amphibious invasion, which is a verrrry tricky business. Now, we might be an island here, so why invade us, us in particular? Well, because the UK is one of the seven most advanced countries in the world. Yes, I know there are other islands just as advanced as we are – Japan and Taiwan spring to mind. However, the UK does not have conscription.'

Cue a few seconds silent sipping of port.

'No conscription, which means a very small army. Not only that, in the UK our armed forces are spread between Ulster, garrison duties in mainland UK, the British Army of the Rhine, UN detachments in Cyprus, training in Kenya and Nigeria and pretty much across the Commonwealth. Comparing us to the Japanese Self-Defence Force, they have twice the number of people on the ground, all in mainland Japan. Taiwan maintains a very large standing army in case of China getting ambitious. So we are a weaker and therefore more tempting target.'

Major Crichton's normally reflective manner changed to incisively interpretive.

'John! What a fantastic premise! I would like that interpretation written up formally and on my desk by tomorrow morning.'

Cue a few seconds of amused laughter at my surprised expression. That'll teach me to chat as if I know what I'm talking about.

'Talking of most recent incidents, how's the debrief of the Think Tank people going, sir?' asked Mister Dobbs.

The Brig tugged one side of his moustache.

'Not too well. They're playing all sorts of intellectual mind-games with the interrogators.'

'You could always put John or Sarn't Benton in with them,' offered The Boy Eden.

'They need to be _alive_ to be interrogated,' added Nick, drily.

'At times like this, we miss Doctor Smith,' sighed the Brig. 'He'd be able to figure out their plots and plans straight away. Trust him to go gallivanting off when we need him – and with our medical officer, too!' (Being ex-Royal Navy, Harry might have been able to throw some light on a disaster in the Ekofisk oil field the Beeb broadcast about later that night, a rig that blew up with the loss of all hands).

'Sir, may I be excused?' I asked. 'I need to get cracking on that report for the Major.'

Scratching away with my birthday-present fountain pen, I threw down notes, made a few wild guesses at numbers (how many mechanised infantry brigades does the Taiwanese army have?) and ended up with two pages of notes for Major Crichton.

Nor was that all. I hadn't opened my parcel from Wigan yet. When I picked it up, a postcard from Blackpool became dislodged from the wrapping, where it had caught.

"So Invigorating!"said the front of the card, which looked to date from the nineteen-thirties, a tinted sepia photo of Blackpool beach with the tide in. Wondering what on earth it was, I read the notes on the back.

"Dear John no time to explain fully but I suspect the Wotan Effect in recent robotic events leaving this hint for you off to Erewhon cheerio pip pip"

Ah. The Doctor. "the Wotan Effect"? What the hell was that? Honestly, trying to communicate with an alien who thinks twice as fast as everyone else but who says less than half of what he ought to can be very trying.

I unwrapped the parcel, finding it to be a small cardboard box with a note from my dad attached.

"John, hope this finds you in good health and high spirits – your mum insists that she saw you getting taken to hospital in a military ambulance last week – as if!. Anyway, what I've sent you came from your Great Aunt Ethel's effects – she had left word with the solicitors that she wanted it to go to you, since you were serving in the army. Since it all seems to be stuff to do with Black Charlie, you're welcome to it!"

I'd missed the funeral – stuck off at Maiden's Point – but my dad said I wasn't really required. Ethel was his aunt on his dad's side, and my dad's dad, my grandfather, was the notorious (in our family anyway) Black Charlie Walmsley. A big thuggish brute who came back from the Great War a nasty violent piece of work, always ready to hit his wife and kids until he drank himself to death in the late Twenties. My dad was only a year old when his father died, but still knew him as a bad lot. Apparently Ethel thought more of him than anyone else in the family, hence this cardboard box.

In a small velvet-lined box nestled amidst photographs and letters, I discovered a medal. Not only that, as my jaw dropped and I felt as if punched, it was the Military Medal. FOR BRAVERY IN THE FIELD, said the reverse. My chin dragged on the floor, because it wasn't just the MM, it was the Military Medal and bar – effectively the same medal awarded twice. And underneath it was another medal, the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

There was a photo, faded around the edges, of Black Charlie, in his uniform. It must have been taken during leave in England. A sergeant, with a lot of extra stripes on his sleeves – five of them. Wound stripes, I realised. He had a big, bristling moustache with a look in his eyes both distant and alarming, and he resembled me altogether too much.

I put the box away, took my report to Major Crichton's pigeonhole and went back to the mess for several large ones. The Brig and a sandy-haired gent in a well-cut suit were still there, swigging port and nattering away. The sandy-haired gent looked strangely familiar.

'John! How appropriate!' beamed the Brig. 'We had just mentioned your name.'

'I have an alibi, sir,' I quipped. Who was the other chap? It felt as if I'd already met him.

'This is Colonel Munroe, retired,' introduced the Brig. 'Lieutenant Munroe's father.'

No wonder he looked familiar – like a more heavily-freckled version of Nick, with a salt-and-pepper moustache. He stood up to shake my hand.

'On my way back from Japan. Thought I'd finally drop in and see Alastair, put a face to your name and chivvy the Boy a bit.'

'You served together, sir?' I asked, to a dismissive wave of the hand.

'Tut, now! I'm long retired, you don't need to "sir" me. Scottish colonels whose paths crossed occasionally.'

The Brig looked at me carefully.

'You look as if you've just seen a ghost, John. And you don't tend to chuck drinks down that fast normally.'

'Seen a ghost? Yes and no, sir. Just got a parcel of effects that belonged to my grandfather. Died long before I was born, and had a terrible reputation.'

'Black sheep of the family, eh?' commented the Brig.

'Absolutely, sir! Known as Black Charlie. I just discovered he got the DCM and the MC and bar. Looks to have been wounded at least five times.'

Mister Munroe's eyes narrowed.

'They don't hand those medals out in cereal packets! Was he in the original BEF or a Kitchener division?'

BEF – British Expeditionary Force, the soldiers who went to France straight away in 1914. Kitchener divisions were the volunteers who joined in 1914 and began fighting on the Somme in 1916. My recollections of lectures and seminars came back.

'Kitchener division, sir. Er, Colonel. Mister Munroe.'

He laughed out loud at that, not at all what I'd expected.

'Do I still look that official! Ha, what you must think of me. Too much attention paid to the Boy, I judge.'

By "the Boy" I took it to mean that he meant Nick, and from what Nick had told me I expected his father to be a starchy old martinet with sandpaper manners. I explained this to him in rather more subtle terms.

'John, my son lacks application. I had to threaten him with the Argyle and Sutherlanders before he finally considered the Black Watch, he's so idle. Being in close company with you has done wonders for him, really made him strive, which is one reason I wanted to meet you face-to-face.'

Oh.

'Oh.'

'Don't give him a swollen head!' warned the Brig, with a smile.

Which prompted my memory.

'Sir – talking of "swollen" – I still haven't understood how that damn robot grew to enormous size after getting a burst from the Disintegrator Gun, when my tank got disintegrated after similar treatment.'

The Brig frowned.

'Me neither. The Doctor did try to explain it, but I couldn't make any sense of his explanation – "KINetically Generated, Kilowatt Overdriven Neo-Giganticism".'

At that I saluted and left. Only next day, writing it down, did I realise the joke the Doctor had played on the Brig. Check out those capital letters and groan at the outrageous pun therein!


End file.
